Street Spirit
by j-mercuryuk
Summary: "Just because his body couldn't escape, did not mean that his soul could not." Loki manages to escape the Chitauri, but it doesn't go as planned. On Earth, far away from the Avengers Tower, a little boy wakes up in a back alley with no memories. De-aged Loki fic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So, after sitting on this for a year or so, I'm finally getting around to posting a new fic only. I should point out that Thor 2 hasn't been released in the country I live in (and won't be until February), so this fic takes place after the Avengers, but AU to the events of Thor: tDW. Unless the events of Tho2:tDW happen to nicely fit with this, which I doubt.

**Chapter 1**

For the longest time, all Loki could feel, all he could remember was the pain. It seeped through every pore in his body, cutting into flesh and grinding into his bones. It consumed him, mind and body, until it was drowning him. He was tired. Tired of trying to rise above it and fight against the tide.

He had tried bidding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move and escape. He had waited…

And waited…

And waited…

And waited…

As time trickled by, and the pain became so much more than that, threatening to destroy him, he realised that escape was just a fickle dream. There was no door to freedom or window of opportunity. He was trapped, doomed to a downwards spiral until his captors finally went too far and shattered him beyond repair. Sometimes he would even wish for his not-brother, anyone, to come and rescue him. In the end, he was left to wonder if Thor had even noticed his absence.

But there was still one small glimmer of hope, just because his body couldn't escape, did not mean that his soul could not. If he could separate the two, then he could trick his bindings and slip away. His body would be left here to continue enduring the Chitauri's torment until he could reclaim it. It was dangerous, unnatural; he had no guarantee of him being able to fashion a provisional body on the other end, but his soul alone was better than nothing. He would take being half a creature to a dead one. The likelihood of tearing himself apart was high, but if he did so, then at least he would still be free of his torture. So collecting himself as much as he could, he set about his task.

It was much like skinning a rabbit. One had to peel their soul away from the body. The first 'incision' was painful, even by his new standards; the body is so much more loath to lose its soul, than to be relieved of its flesh. The process was long and delicate, laced with pain that struck within the core of his very being that no physical wound could reach. _It_ screamed of the desecration he was performing on himself and had it be any other situation, he would have given up within seconds of starting. It distracted him from his reality though, except for when exhaustion forced him to stop. Better to be slow and get the task right.

He was unsure of how long it took; days, weeks, or years. Day by day he eased his soul away from his body until only the final section was left. Then something jerked and dragged at his existence, and he realised he was being pushed towards death. He panicked. He frantically pulled with all his might. He let out a feral scream as he ripped apart his soul, leaving a chunk of it within his dying body. He felt himself flung away, reeling from the violent separation. He tried to gather his mind together as it slipped away. He needed a destination, to hide himself from prying eyes, a temporary vessel and… There were other things he was sure, but they were beyond his grasp, so he focused on those three. He groped at his magic as he tumbled through the universe while juggling his thoughts and spells. Location. Somewhere safe, where he could hide away. His mind latched onto one that flittered through his head (not head, he didn't have a head) from a long buried memory. The queerest place to settle on: Norway.

(&)

For some people, waking up is never a pleasant experience. For a certain young boy, perhaps seven, maybe younger, on this one occasion this was doubly true. He was awake long before he opened his eyes, but the world made no sense. There was a noise, unrecognisable as anything other than a deafening mess. He wanted to raise his hands to cover his ears against the assault, but his body refused to respond to his desire. Perhaps he had no body to respond to him. His mind seemed to fall in on itself at that thought.

_No_, it moaned, _that wasn't possible_. He had to have a body otherwise he wouldn't be here, would he? Wherever here was.

Open his eyes; that's what he needed to do. Then he would be able to see he was here, in person, with a body.

He focused and tried. However, his world remained nothing but darkness and noise. Or was it just darkness. Or just noise. He couldn't tell which anymore; they merged until they were one and the same, mixing in with his emotions to create a cocktail of confusion. An indistinguishable black hole within his head…if he had a head.

"Open your eyes," he commented to himself, but it was immediately swallowed by the void. Still he repeated the phrase, not caring if he could not hear it, because at least having the thoughts comforted him some.

Slowly he scraped his eyes open and his stomach lurched horribly with relief…no, not relief. That was wrong, but he was sure relief was in there somewhere. It was nausea that made his stomach writhe. However if his stomach churned so violently, then surely that must mean that he had a stomach and, by extension, a body. His vision was a muddle of shapes and colours, making him queasy. Nothing seemed to have a definite shape, whirling and morphing while the colours blended together and separated, creating new shapes to confuse and scare him. Yes, he was scared. They were terrifying, the way they made no sense and how he didn't understand and…he didn't know what else. He was scared though. His head spun and his breathing quickened, additional proof that he had a body. Another roll of his stomach caused him to snap his eyes shut.

Deep breaths, he tried to take deep breaths anyway. Eventually he calmed and ventured to open his eyes once more. Again he felt the wave of dizziness, but this time he refused to be dragged under the surface. He wanted to get up and see and hear. So, he took a shape, or a colour, he wasn't sure which, and focused on it. He lay there and he focused on that one thing until the swirling slowed, the edges stilled and a stationary, permanent figure formed. As that object fell into place, the shapes and colours around it started to become anchored to the world. It was blurry and unclear, but the more he stared, the more defined the edges and details became. It was like bringing a telescope into focus. As his vision righted itself, he found that so did his other senses, as if they his body was slowly remembering how to function.

The roar dimmed, as sounds separated, alerting and informing him to the surrounding world. If only he could bring his head together enough to understand what it all meant. Not only those two senses, but he began to feel again, physically. Something cold and hard pressed against his skin, from his cheek down the side of his body. He managed to acknowledge that he was curled up on his side. Something cold and wet, rain, struck his skin. With feeling came movement, if only a little; a twitch of a foot and the bending of clumsy fingers. A smell assaulted his nostrils...wine...vomit…alcohol and…rot, all mingled together in the damp air.

Every minute his world came more and more into focus, he could recognise objects now. Across from him stood a tall brick wall, stretching high into the sky, and to either side of him stood two huge boxes, 'bins' the part off his mind that supplied all the strange words to him whispered. The paved ground was wet, puddles were growing and it wasn't particularly clean. Rubbish was scattered over the ground and in the pools. The surroundings may not very exciting, but he knew he had a body for certain now, he just didn't know where that body was.

Body…

He rolled a shoulder and then moved the attached arm. He had little control over the movement, still half numb it flailed wildly. He watched in bizarre fascination. Back and forth, then dropping it to the ground. He stared at it. Hmmm. He pressed his palm against the stones below him and slowly, so very slowly, sat up. He held up his hands and stared at them. He wiggled his fingers. Then he stared some more. They were small, very small. Were they supposed to be this small? This seemed wrong, but his scattered mind couldn't register this beyond, 'oh', let alone as something important. He was just too dazed to really acknowledge anything.

He turned his hands over and wiggled his fingers again. He stared and clenched his toes. Wiggled his fingers, clenched his toes and blinked. A small giggle escaped him. He blinked rapidly, wiggled his fingers, clenched-

A loud bang from the bin to his left made him jump, bringing his game to an abrupt end, if he could call it a game. What was that noise? A rat? A dog? A snake? Maybe. There was a muttered curse. Not a rat then, unless rats could talk. Rats didn't talk did they…no, that was silly. A person, but why would a person shift around the filth and waste?

Shifting his weight forward, the boy crawled sluggishly onward on his hands and knees. Peering round the corner he looked up to see what appeared to be a pile of clothes with what was most likely a person inside, shift around in the bin. It chuckled and straightened.

A head appeared; it was aged and weather worn, with a large bushy beard, a man into his winter years. His hair was grey with a few streaks of its original black peeking through the mass. Dark brown eyes surveyed the flat circular bread in front of him. "Was'ers," the man muttered, "Al' uv 'em was'ers. No' goo' 'nough fa faceless, bu' goo' 'nough fa Ol' Sam. A'ways was'ing fa Ol' Sam ta pic' up."

English? It was garbled, but most definitely English. That brief tingle of confusion was replaced by a jolt of annoyance. "Missed!" a small, almost inaudible voice hissed from a deep, and yet distant, part of mind. He frowned in confusion. Missed? Really? Was he aiming for something? Missed what? Was he supposed to be somewhere? He didn't know.

"Woo's 'is?"

The boy suddenly realised that 'Old Sam' was looking straight at him. He breath hitched, his fear spiked at the hostile and suspicious gaze directed at him. He scrambled to his feet and tired to scurry away, but his legs were still too clumsy and sluggish. Instead of escaping, he stumbled and hit the ground. He cried out as the stone struck his flesh and scrapped his skin away. It hurt and he sniffed back a sob.

'Pathetic,' that deep-distant part him seemed to sneer, only making him want to cry more than ever.

He felt the man loom over him and he slowly, shaking ever-so-slightly, turned to sit on his backside. Wide terrified eyes meet narrowed angry ones. A growl made it past the old man's lips.

"Ma foo'." That was fine by the boy; he didn't want food that had been thrown away into a filth tip. Who knew where it had been and what it had touched. The words could not be formed though, his mind blank. "All ma. Can' 'ave eny."

"I do not want any!" The child cried out, words finally breaking free.

This seemed to mollify the vagrant, for the moment, but suspicion still lay in the dark eyes.

"Where'd ya clofes go?"His voice still held a snarl.

The child blinked and looked down, his fear forgotten in his surprise and shock as he found that he was indeed naked. How? Why? He'd never even noticed. He felt his face heat and he curled up in an attempt to hide his body from the stranger's eyes.

"I-I-I- do not know."

"Dunno? How'd ya no' no?"

"I-I do not know."  
"Ya s'upi'?"

It took a moment for him to understand the butchered word and when he did, he honestly was not sure what his answer should be. Was he stupid? He supposed he must be if he couldn't remember anything, not even where his clothes were. However, his mind rebelled against the notion of him being an idiot. He was not an imbecile…was he?

"I do not know."

"Wha' ya name?"

The boy swallowed, his mind beginning to once again race in panic at his complete and utter lack of knowledge. It scared him, for some reason, more than Old Sam did... "I do not know."

"DUNNO!?" The man shrieked, causing the boy to shrink back. "DUNNO!? DUNNO!? Ya no 'n'thin' boy!? Say 'n'thin' else? Jus' dunno?"

"No. Yes." He really wasn't sure what he should say. "I cannot remember."

The old tramp stepped next to him and before there was any time to escape, snapped his hand around the child's bicep. He yanked him roughly to his feet, drawing him so close that when he spoke his hot breath washed over the child's face with a stench of alcohol that threatened to choke the youth.

"Ya lyin' ta me boy? Ya 'ere ta tric' Ol' Sam? Faceless men sen' ya?"

"No," his voice wobbled and tears fell. "I swear I do not remember. I awoke not two minutes ago. I do not remember a second before that. I swear."

He desperately stared into the narrowed brown eyes, silently begging them to believe him. Slowly the old man placed him down again. The snivelling boy wiped his eyes with the back of hand, though he hardly needed to bother with the rain hiding the evidence from his face, as the old man watched him.

"Got no clofes?"

The boy shook his head again. Old Sam removed his thick coat and then removed his old, stained and worn khaki shirt. He dropped it on top of the child.

"Pu' i' on."

The boy rushed to comply. It reeked, there was no escaping that, a fusion of liquor, vomit and something he could not identify. It turned his stomach, clogging up his throat, but it was better than nothing. At least he was covered now, shielded from eyes and protected against the rain and cold…to a certain extent.

"Dun' wanna be walkin' roun' wif no clofes."

The boy's fingers fumbled with the buttons, his fingers still lacking the dexterity required to do it smoothly.

"Sic' men ou' there, sicka than Ol' Sam. Evil men. Take ya, like demans, like they di' ta ma Sven." The old man's voice broke, tears threatening to fall. The words came out raspy and broken as he continued. "Ma poor boy, ma beautiful boy. Too' hi' from us. The' faceless men came an' too' ma gal. She were betta off wif me tha' them."

The vagabond's expression suddenly changed, as if remembering some important matter. He shuffled back to where he had dropped the flat bread on the floor, unnoticed by both of them. Rushing back, he held it out to the boy, like a child holding out freshly picked flowers to his mother. The comparison caused a horrible pang inside of him, which confused him to no end.

"Foo'. Ea'."

The raspy voice dragged the child back, and he looked down at the offered food, which was soggy from the rain-wet ground. His throat tightened. The thought of putting something that had been amongst the refuse and in dirty puddle water in his mouth, let alone swallowing it, caused his stomach to churn. He shook his head.

Old Sam's eyes flashed. 'No goo' 'nough fa ya?"

"No," he rushed out, the Words flowing out without thought as he tried to curb the old vagrant's anger. "I am not hungry, you should have it instead."

The man looked thoughtful, and then smiled at him. A dirty and calloused hand came up to rest against a pale, smooth cheek. The rough thumb brushed the soft skin underneath.

"Kin' boy. So kin' an' goo'. Li'e ma Sven, jus' li'e ma boy. He waz a goo' un. An' hansum, li'e ya. Pret'i skin, dark hai'…pret'i blu' eyes…jus' li'e hiz mama. BITCH!" The sudden outburst caused the boy to jump, but the man continued as if nothing had happened. "Jus' li'e ma boy. Ma bran' new Sven." He laughed. "Go' a secon' chance wif ma boy. Ma Sven."

Old Sam turned and threw his thick coat back on. Picking up a large bag that had previously lain unnoticed, he heaved it upon his back. Turning to the boy, he smiled.

"No name?" The boy nodded. "Now'ere ta go?"

The boy paused. He supposed he didn't. He had no idea what to do now: no memories, nowhere to go, nowhere he belonged to; he didn't even have a name. He bit his lip against the rising fear, but now it was for a very different reason: for his own uncertain life. He tried not to sob and he nodded.

"Ma boy now the'. Ol' Sam ta'e goo' care uv ya now. I'll ta'e care uv ma boy, I will." The smile widened, he ruffled the black hair, and he shuffled past to the entrance of the dead-end alley. "Come on, Sven. Be' Time."

'Sven' remained where he was, still chewing his lip while nervously watching the beggar. He didn't know whether he should follow the old man or not. He'd be lying if he'd said that the man didn't scare him; he didn't really want to be stuck in his company. He wanted to go somewhere nice and safe, where a woman smelling of roses would wrap her arms round him. They would sit by the fire and she would sing him songs while her fingers combed his black locks.

His eyes watered again and a sob broke free, followed by another. What woman? His mother? He didn't have one, did he? The thought made him feel sick, more than the idea of being lost and alone.

"Be' Time, Sven!" The voice was impatient.

He tried to blink, to clear his vision. He wanted to stay where he was, to curl up and hope against hope that someone would find him and take him to where he was supposed to be. What if no one came, though, and he was left all on his own? He would die, wouldn't he? He didn't have a choice; following was better than staying.

Sniffing, he wiped away tears and followed Old Sam from the dark and scary alley onto a bright shopping road - a market of some kind, perhaps. Like a lost puppy, the newly-named Sven followed his master down the road. They passed a building with an open door, men spilling out and a loud ruckus from within, the men grouped together, 'singing' at the top of their lungs. Watching them as he passed, trying to glimpse what went on inside the walls, Sven noticed that several seemed to be wearing some kind of uniform. Short sleeved shirts that were decorated with vertical black and white strips and numbers on the back - he could not see the front. The men seemed happy, sloshing their drinks around.

Turning his head away, Sven quickened his pace to catch up with Old Sam. The bellows of drunken men followed him down the street as the rain beat against his skin.

"We are the Geordies,

The cock of the North.

We all hate Man Utd,

And 'Boro of course.

We all drink whiskey,

And Newcastle broon.

The Newcastle boys are in town.

La la la la la la."

* * *

**A/N:** I feel I should very quickly point out that Old Sam isn't supposed to have a Geordie accent. Just garbled English.

So, that's the start of it. I hope people enjoyed it. If you did, I'd love to hear from you. If not, I'd love to hear what you think I can improve on it. I'm really not sure what people will make of this… Though please, please, no spoilers or comments about Thor tDW, I'd really like to avoid spoilers. :(

Anyway, the title is taken from Radiohead's song by the same title.

The beta reader for this fanfic is You May Call Me Goddess - Bitch Goddess


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** First, a big thank you to everyone who fav'ed, followed and left a comment. :D It made me very happy. To anyone still following, sorry this chapter took so long. I've spent the last few weeks in and out of Winter Camps and preparing for them, which doesn't leave much time for typing. On the plus side, it's coming up to the end of the school year here, which means far more free time for me.

On the second plus side, The Dark World has finally come out here! Went to see it on opening night, so, yes, this is most definitely an AU fic.

**Chapter 2**

Cold air brushed over his cheek, a slight dampness that was still in the air clung to his skin, making it clammy. Though he was protected in the sheltered passage way, he could still see the drizzle which seemed more like mist in the street outside. It was a grey and miserable town, lacking in the warmth of the morning sun which was held captive behind the clouds before it had time to fully rise. This was the sight that greeted the boy, now Sven, as he opened his eyes to the waking world.

His mind was pleasantly blank. Perhaps he should find this settlement miserable, or be confused by his situation and location, but he knew nothing. To him, the world shouldn't be anything else and yet something niggled in his mind, telling him it should be different. As if this horrid smell shouldn't flood his nose or the deep rumble fill his right ear.

A man walked past the end of the tunnel, scruffy clothing and a bright yellow jacket, sending him a strange look before disappearing from sight. From what Sven could see though, the street looked quiet, despite the number of shops that lined the road.

The rumbling stopped suddenly and the ground shifted underneath him. Alarmed, Sven looked round only to find the source of the smell, rumbling and his memories of last night. Once again, Old Sam shifted underneath Sven, reminding the boy of how the vagrant had dragged the child onto his lap to sleep last night. The child had simply let him, unsure what else to do and comforted by the knowledge that he was not alone. So, he had put up with the smell and petting until they both drifted off to sleep.

Abruptly, without warning, Sven found himself on the floor. Startled, the child looked up at Old Sam, who glared down at him. He opened his mouth to say something, to ask if the mendicant was alright, but the words never made it out. Wide eyes met narrowed ones and nothing happened for a minute, until Ol' Sam's face softened and a smile broke out across his face. He reached towards Sven and pulled him back towards him.

"Ma Sven. Ma Boi." The big metal screen behind them rattled, causing Sven to jump away from Sam in alarm. The old man didn't react though, merely standing up as if he'd heard nothing. Maybe he hadn't. "Com'. B'eakfas'. Nee' ta ge' 'eakfas' fa ma growin' boi." He swung his bag back onto his back. "Com' Sven. Papa gonna fin' ya 'eakfas'," and he trudged forward, once more leaving Sven to jog after him.

He followed the vagabond down the street, lined with shops with their doors closed and lights off in the early morning. Large glass windows and bright fronts caught the boy's eyes, while the letters merged together to make words that he could not read. The wares shifted between boring, confusing, hidden, and interesting. He longed to take a closer look at some of the windows, but Ol' Sam continued walking and so, so did he.

They stopped at the end of the road, where it was cut off by another, forcing them to turn left or right. The man turned right, crossing the road to a large red bin. Sighing, Sven followed, stopping as Sam lifted the lid and peeked inside. The man dropped it again, before shuffling further up the road, muttering under his breath about faceless men stealing all the food away. All Sven could understand was that the bin was empty and that maybe all the bins were the same. He didn't know how or why, he was just relieved he wouldn't have to eat whatever Sam fished out of the refuse. Maybe Ol' Sam could find some real food now.

The aged man suddenly stopped and Sven walked straight into his legs, nearly tumbling onto his backside.

"No 'reakfas," he said, turning round. "No foo', no 'eakfas'." The child's face fell a little while his stomach protested; the hollowness seemed to swell with the knowledge that food would not be forthcoming. How terribly unfair this was. His belly twisted at the thought of bin-food, but ached at the prospect of none. However, the mendicant was smiling down at him, crinkling his eyes and turning his face into something pleasant and Sven smiled back without truly knowing why, but it did seem like the proper thing to do. "No worri. Ol' Sam'll ge' foo' fa 'is boi. Pa'll 'ook afta 'is boi."

With that he completely changed his direction and hobbled back down the street, but instead of turning back down the way they'd came, he continued straight on, his new faithful little boy once again on his heels.

(&)

They stopped at a carfax, the sky brighter while still being just dull and grey as before, Sam settling down outside the large windows of one of the shops, right on the corner where the two main roads met. Sven looked round, trying to let the sights sink in, but there was just so much around him. The lights by the roads shifted colours, going from green to yellow to red while strange horseless carriages stopped and went in time with the changes. A beeping filled the air and he looked round for the source; unable to find it, he focused on the strange vehicle on the road. He should know its name, he was sure of it, but when he reached for it, it slipped through his fingers. He huffed, annoyed beyond reason that this little word that he was sure he knew did not leap-

Arms snaked round his waist and pulled him backwards. Sven let out a little yelp of surprise as he tumbled back into Ol' Sam's lap. One arm was briefly removed in order to tug the hat from the old man's head and drop it onto the ground before them. The man relaxed into place, his arms still locked around Sven, stopping him for doing anything more than wriggling in his place. It was… uncomfortable for him, though not physically, he wished he knew why though. It would be nice to know why his mind seemed to think that this could turn unpleasant. So, he tried to fight the nervous whisper that wound its way down his spine and trickled into his gut. He tried to relax, it didn't work very well. However, as the boy realised that the air was still cold and Sam was warm, he found it easier to ignore the smell and simmering nerves. As the street became busier, he was distracted by the new sights and sounds. His protector slid to the back of his mind, no longer important in the light of new wonders. They sat and Sven watched people passed, every now and then wondering how this was going to get them food.

The answer came when a woman stepped out of the shop and dropped a small gold circle into the hat.

Sam smiled up at her. "Ta, ma luv."

The woman simply walked on and Sven suddenly made the connections; they were begging. Of course they would have to beg for… For… Sven frowned down at the coin, but that wasn't the word he was looking for. Oh, what was it and why couldn't he remember it. Gold? No. Silver? No. Like the vehicle word, this one constantly danced outside of his reach. Another coin joined the first, this one larger but silver and shaped oh-so curiously. He reached out, picked it up and held it before his face. It wasn't round, not like the other one, but had seven slanted sides. On the side facing him was the profile of an old woman wearing a hat… a crown, and around the edge were numbers and symbols. There was a familiar sting of frustration when he realised that he couldn't read the symbols, the meanings escaping him, but it was joined by a hint of disappointment and alarm. It seemed very wrong that he couldn't read and was only damped slightly by the relief that he could understand the numbers. Was that strange? He wasn't sure. Still, it gave him some comfort that he could read the 'II' after the word and the '1997' on the other side. He flipped the coin over. On the back was a woman, maybe the same one, sitting, a shield by her side and a strange spear in her hand. An animal rested at her feet. Below her '50' was written.

He reached into the hat and pulled out the other coin, the gold one, and examined that one too and thus passed the rest of the morning. Sitting in Sam's lap, using the coins to distract himself from the increasingly uncomfortable hunger and thirst creeping through him. He examined each new coin that dropped into the hat, though it happened quite rarely. After the fourth coin landed, he realised that the each coin had the head on it and it was of the same woman in each, changing from young to old. After yet more time, he realised that the number over the head increased as the face aged. It intrigued him, so he started to arrange the coins in the number order, from a very small brown '1' coin (1971) to a very new '50' coin (2012), which he was thrilled to see had a completely different picture to the first one he'd picked up, though he had no idea what it was or what it meant. Maybe it meant that this '50' coin was more valuable, but then why not just give it a different number.

He gazed at his line of coins, marvelling at how it was like seeing the woman age before him. He wondered who she was. Perhaps the ruler, that would make sense as she did wear a crown, but then this made him wonder how he even knew what a crown was in the first place. He didn't remember learning what it was, but then, he didn't remember anything before yesterday evening. It did seem very important, though it left a bitter coat over his thoughts, creeping in from a deep dark place inside him. For what reason, he knew not, but it distracted from the ache in his belly and yearning in his throat.

As a fifth gold coin landed in the hat, Sam picked it up and the other four ones. He chuckled, ruffling Sven's hair with his free hand. "Sven ma luc'e charm. Brinin' Ol' Sam lotsa mone'. Know ya 'pose ta come back ta ma." Sam pressed the mone (…money! that was the word), into Sven's hand. "See. Ol' Sam said' 'e'll geh foo' fa yah an' 'e di'. Na, go geh foo' fa me 'n' ya."

The boy looked down at the five small coins in his hand, back up at Sam, down at the coins again and then at the crowd around him. The crossroad had grown busy with a constant stream of people walking by, drifting in and out of shops while vehicles rushed by, only stopping when the lights told them to.

"Where?"

"Sho'. Go, go, go!" The man waved an impatient hand to shoo him away.

Sven looked round him once more, completely at a loss as to what to do. Someone roughly bumped into him and he stumbled back away from Sam. He quickly ducked to the side to avoid another person and another and another, with each step he was eased away from the old vagrant. One more with a spin round and he caught sight of a large picture in a window across the road. It certainly looked like food. He glanced back at Old Sam who was still sitting and smiling, but his gaze was back on the hat. Sven supposed the shop was his best chance.

He followed the trail of people across the road and managed to squeeze through them to slip through the door which slide open of its own accord. He blinked, surprised, but supposed that this must be the norm as dashed in. Inside was warm and filled with the enticing smell of baked food. If he had any doubts, it was dispersed there and then as he looked at the rows of baking behind glass casing.

He looked at it, wide-eyed and his stomach rumbled, his feet pulling him forward. So many things and he had no idea what any of them were. Each tray had an orange and blue sign, but he simply couldn't understand the writing. He felt a new stab of annoyance, but at least he could understand numbers; they just confused him a little. Why was there a dot in the middle? How much did he have in his hands? Why did some signs have a symbol at the beginning and other signs a completely different symbol at the end? How did he get the food? There was no one here and no way to get the sustenance. How did he even pay?

"Alreet?" Sven jumped a little at the voice, his head snapping round in the direction of the voice. "Sorry, divvnae mean te startle yee, love."

A woman walked into his vision, a tray of cakes in one hand and they looked mouth-watering, distracting him from her confusing words that were hard to understand. She gave him a pleasant smile, causing her face to crinkle into warm creases, her hair pulled back into a cap. She bent down and removed an empty tray from one of the shelves and replaced it with the one in her hands.

"Get a bit wet did yee?"

Sven looked at her in utter confusion, watching as she turned to place the empty tray down on the surface behind her. Wet? Why would he be wet? It hadn't rained that much? Was he in the wrong place after all?

She turned back to him and seeing his expression said, "The shirt's a little git big fre yee . Did yee fall in a big puddle?"

He looked down at himself. At the sleeves that he had rolled up multiple times so that they no longer fell over his hands, the hem that brushed against his knees and collar that continuously slipped down his shoulder. He supposed it was rather big for him. He hadn't thought about it much until then.

"Are yer parents nearby?"

Parents? Mother? Father? The thought of these words caused something to claw at his heart, twisting it painfully until he had to look down and blink away tears. His gut sickeningly twisted in a whole new way that confused him, how could something unknown be so painful. He simply wouldn't think about it, he decided, and it would no longer bother him. Or he hoped so. He shook his head.

"Are yee lost? Yee poor thing?"

Lost? A deep dark crook of his mind chuckled at this. Yes, in a manner of speaking he was. He wasn't though. He knew where Old Sam was and that was where he had to go back to and where he was now. So, surely then, he couldn't be lost.

He shook his head. "Sam sent me to get some food."

"He yer youngen? Or yer uncle?" He had no idea what she meant by youngen, so he simply nodded, eager to be onto another topic. "Well, then, what waad yee leik?"

The child looked up, tears already forgotten. He looked at all the food, once again feeling at a loss. He had no idea what to choose. What was in all of them? He couldn't ask what every single one was, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Hoo much money dyer hev?" He held out his hands to her. "Five pounds, that'll get yee summat canny fre yee an Sam."

He wasn't sure that he really understood what the woman had said, but he was sure it was confirming he could get food for both of them.

"Can I have a drink as well?"

"Course yee can. Dyer leik fruits?" He paused, as he sorted through the question, and nodded. He was sure he liked fruits. "Waad Sam leik one as well?"

Sven chewed his lip. Maybe, he didn't say anything about drinks, but if Sven was thirsty, then so must the mendicant. He nodded, and she turned to cabinet with a transparent glass door and took out two bottles.

"Shall Ah gis yee a red an a orange one?" Looking at the strange liquids he simply nodded, his default action in this uncertain situation. "That's two pounds an forty pence. Yee hev two-sixty left"

Sven looked at the rows of food, once again lost at the range of items and the numbers. She said pounds and pence, was the first number pounds and the second pence?

"Dyer leik sandwiches?" Sven shrugged. "Yer a shy little thing ain't ye?" Was he really? He just didn't know the answer to any of her questions. Why did that make him shy? "Why divvent yee hev two bait deals; any sandwich an' a drink."

Sven looked down at the coins in his hands and then up at the woman, who quickly shifted her expression back to a smile, forcing his eyes back up to his face.

"Do I have enough?" It seemed a lot for five coins, but they were gold ones. She smiled down at him, and he wondered, was it a little sad?

"Yeah, yee hev enough the dayuh. Just choose any two sandwiches. Ower heor."

She walked down the counter and he followed them and pointed down at the selection. Some of them looked very big. "Any of them?"

"Any yee leik."

His belly grumbled loudly and his mouth watered as he looked at their wares. From the plain to the chucky ones filled with all kinds of ingredients. Playing it safe he pointed to a long thin one with what he assumed was ham and cheese inside, though he picked a far bigger one for Sam. He didn't think that the old man cared what was brought back, not if he dug through bins for food, but he was a lot bigger than Sven, so he must eat more.

"That's five pounds."

He stepped forward, going up onto tip-toes so that he could drop the money onto the counter and took the bag. He dashed to the door, but as it opened on its own, he suddenly stopped. He was forgetting something. He frowned. He was sure he had forgotten something. He turned back to the lady who watched him with a most curious expression.

"Are yee alreet, luve."

"I forgot something."

"Te syah , thank yee?"

He immediately brightened. Yes, that was it. "Thank you. Thank you for the food and drinks."

She smiled, his eyes drifting down to his bare feet. "Yee welcome."

He bobbed and was out and down the street to where he had left Old Sam. No sooner had he stopped by the man then the beggar looked up and grinned.

"Goo' boi. Go' Ol' Sam foo'."

Sven reached into the bag and pulled out Sam's sandwich, being very careful not to drop it and handed it over. The man chuckled as he unwrapped it.

"Sven bough' 'is Pa a big un. 'E's a good'un. Nos 'ow ta ge' foo'. Goo' boi."

The praise snaked into him, warming him from head to toe. He smiled, proud of his job well done, he must be doing this right, so with new confidence he pulled out the two bottles and presented them to the man.

"Wha's 'is?"

"A drink," he replied. Surely that much was obvious.

Sam's face twisted into an ugly scowl. "Wha'? Drin'? Drin'? Wha'd'ya was'e mone' on 'is piss wata. Stopi' boi." He suddenly clouted Sven round the ear. It didn't really hurt, not too much anyway, but it startled him into stumbling back. They received a few strange looks for the people walking by, one man stopping. He… He knew that Sam hadn't told him to get drinks, but he never thought that he would object so strongly. Maybe he chose the wrong drink, but then what was wrong with these ones? What was 'piss wata'?

"I'm sorry," he rushed out in a small voice. "I didn't mean it. I was just thirsty and thought you must be too."

There was silence and when Sven dared to look up, he saw that Sam's expression had softened. He allowed himself to relax a little; uncomfortably aware of the attention they were receiving from those passing him by.

"Silly boi, tha's a drin' fa Sam. Ol' Sam don' nee' no drin'. 'E'll ge' 'is own drin' ta nigh'. Proper drin' fa Sam. Sit."

The man patted the stone next to him, and at a loss of what else to do, Sven obliged him. The boy wondered if this meant that he could have both drinks. That would be nice. He could save the second one for a later time. Sam did say that it was Sven's drink, but he couldn't tell with Sam just how much he meant that. Well, he could drink one now and then save the other until he was sure that Sam didn't want it.

Content with his small plan, he reached for his own meal. It was big, but he was ever so hungry. He bet he could eat the whole thing then and there. He didn't in the end. By half way through he was full, but waste not, want not. He wrapped up the uneaten half again as Sam threw his rubbish across the pavement. He would save the rest, maybe he would finish it tonight or tomorrow and hopefully it would put off having to eat Sam's bin food for a little while longer.

* * *

So, there's chapter two. I apologise for if the woman's Gordie accent is dreadful. I'm terrible at writing accents, so I found a 'translator' online and used that. I also hope that it wasn't too confusing, but hopefully it'll help with 'Sven's' PoV.

Next chapter we should get to see a little of the Avengers and Thor.

Anyway, hate it? Love it? Found it dull? Interesting? Whatever you think, feel free to tell me in the little comment box below.


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